Truth or Lies?, A. Gomez [reading an ebook .TXT] 📗

“Oh.” He startled me. “I’m not looking for anything in particular, Mr. Chang. I’m just admiring your home,” I lied. “Your home should be featured in an architectural and design magazine. It’s just too interesting and eye-catching to not want to look at everything. I feel like in some rooms it’s as if baroque meets modern and in other rooms it’s contemporary meets traditional. Did you decorate it yourself? I would love a tour one of these days.” Actually, that was how his house, or rather mansion, came across to me, although, if he did ever take me on a tour, it would give me the opportunity to look for those jammers. I took another bite of my delectable fish and a sip of my wine to wash it down.

“Dr. Langley, your compliment overwhelms me. No one has ever shown this much interest in my home or in my art collection. I don’t know what to say.” He was gazing at me, his eyes wide and unblinking. “And to answer your question, yes, I did decorate it myself. However, I’ve never had anyone over so I could share my art and frankly no one has ever shown interest in coming to visit. I don’t have that many friends that appreciate art and the finer things in life. I’ve always wanted to hold a dinner party and discuss art and the artists that painted or sculpted the art.”

Was he serious? No one else had shown interest in his art or museum-like mansion? He was a human sex trafficker! What the hell was he thinking… that he could have a dinner party and no one would notice that he had a ton of young girls living here? The more I talked to Chang the more I began to realize he was, at times, living in an imaginary world, detached from logic, sympathy and just common compassion for others. He saw those girls and me as things that were now part of his collection. Or… was he just craving companionship? He was confounding me.

“Well… um… perhaps because, you know… given your… um… profession, perhaps that’s why you haven’t had anyone over?”

“Yes, that does impede on me being able to have a normal social life,” he said, sighing as if it were nothing. “But you’re here now and we seem to have the most riveting conversations about all things art and art history.” His face had a whisper of a smile.

This was getting weird and his overt politeness was disturbing. I wanted so badly to take control of the situation somehow, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “It’s a shame that I’ll have to leave here one day and go to wherever. Our riveting conversations will come to an end,” I casually replied, taking another bite of my food. “That is your plan, right? That’s what I heard you tell Debbie ‘once Dr. Langley is gone…’ Am I wrong?” Maybe my comment would confuse him or stir some kind of emotion to make him think. I eyed him, trying to observe his body language.

“Yes, Dr. Langley, that is the plan,” he answered without skipping a beat. He took another forkful of food. “So far, I have only uploaded your picture with a brief summary of you on the website we talked about, the one where the clientele has deep pockets. It seems as though some of these clients want to buy you and, so, just as I predicted, they are trying to outbid one other. A bidding war.” He smirked, taking a drink of his wine.

I gazed down at my food, suddenly feeling nausea. I picked at my food, not wanting to give myself away. That really didn’t go like I thought it would. I quickly changed the subject and asked him how he got started on his art collection and what inspired him to decorate the way he did. I even went as far as to encourage him to try a little painting or sculpting himself. He laughed and told me that work was keeping him too busy at the moment and he couldn’t find the time.

Work. I fought the urge to frown and shake my head at his answer. He talked like it was a nine-to-five job. I wished I could ask him what got him to this point in his life. How did he get mixed up in this awful… “business?” By the time we finished eating and drinking the bottle of wine, he was still on the topic of how his art collection began. He had yet to answer what inspired him to decorate his mansion the way he did.

I could hear girls coming and going. No doubt for their appointments. I had no way of checking to see what time it was, but by the angle of the sun, as I glanced out the windows, trying to see through the permanently closed shutters, it looked to be mid to late afternoon. I was starting to get a little worried about Betty Lou. I was anxious to get back to her.

An idea struck me, so I finally interrupted him, “Mr. Chang, have you heard of a painting called The Isle of the Dead?” He shook his head. “It was a very popular painting in Europe many years ago. I don’t know about today but Rachmaninoff composed a symphonic poem about this particular painting. The music is so powerful and ominous and melancholy all wrapped up in an opus.” I continued, “I’ve heard the music but have never seen the painting. Nor do I know much about the painting or the artist. This is something I’ve always wanted to research but never found the time to do so.” I was hoping this would pique his interest enough for him to want to get up and look it up.

“The Isle of the Dead, you